


The Blaze

by Anonymous



Category: Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Body Horror, Bottom Thor, Crying, Gore, Horrible stuff, Humiliation, Hurt Thor, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Loki didn't go to Asgard after Svartalheim, M/M, Protective Loki, Punishment, Slave Thor, Torture, Unconventional Medical Practices, fire giants - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 07:00:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8523157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Thor is captured and horribly tortured by Fire Demons. Enter Loki. For once, it's not Loki who is being tortured. A very niche genre of Thor whump. Expect all sorts of awfulness with bottom Thor. But not without hurt/comfort and some feels.





	

**Author's Note:**

> HAVE YOU READ THE TAGS??!
> 
> I did this to overcome an epic bloc I have on my WIP that I am supposed to be writing this month, where the good Captain is driving me nuts with his high moral values. This is all shades of dark, bad, wrong and outright disgusting.
> 
> First Draft NanoWrimo quality. Unbetaed. Probably makes no sense at all. Any mistakes or examples of my non-nativeness – don’t be shy to point out and I’ll get it fixed. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter: graphic rape, torture, body horror, unconventional medical practices**

The thirst is unbearable.

It radiates from the back of his dry mouth, dances on the swollen tongue and cracked lips, travels down his throat as if someone is stuffing him with gritty hot sand.

Each breath brings in more sulphur, burning his throat and the insides of his nostrils. He coughs and spits out more blood, robbing his body of precious liquid. Pitiful shallow breaths are not enough to fill the lungs. He tries to bend forward as far as the chain connected to the wrists tied behind his back will permit him. It seems to bring a small relief allowing him to take in more air. Soon however, the agonising pain begins to shoot through his shoulders as his arms, outstretched at the unnatural angle behind him, refuse to support the weight of his body.

How long has he been here, in this cave? How long since he so recklessly decided to ignore the All-Father’s command? He was outraged that father still did not trust him, still treated him like a boy. After all the battles he’d fought and won! And later, in the tavern with his shield brothers, he was still fuming, and they drank more and shouted, _Madness!_ and laughed with excitement, and Sif was a little apprehensive, reminding him of the last time they went against the King’s expressed commands, but he chuckled and patted her on the shoulder.

What happened to Sif and Fandral? And Hogun? And the merry Volstagg? He hasn’t seen them since they were captured. Perhaps, they were released, sent back to Asgard as a slap in the All-Father’s face. Perhaps, they are only keeping him – the prince and the heir to the throne of Asgard – as a ransom.

The sound of the approaching footsteps brings him back from his thoughts.

He can’t see them. His inflamed sore eyes are glued almost entirely shut by the dry pus. In the beginning, there was just itching and tearing from the acidic gas, then the tears gave way to the gooey pus and then dried up altogether.

He jerks when he feels their scalding hot paws on his arms. The chains rumble and clank as they are released, and his fatigued body begins to sink to the ground. The clawed paws roughly yank him up to his feet and haul him out of the cave.  

He can hear the distant clamour of the crowd as they drag him, and his legs scrape over the sharp rocks.

Soon the clamour turns into the deafening roar. The paws release him and he falls on his hands and knees, struggling to stay upright under the strong gravity. The rocky ground underneath him is almost intolerably hot, and his ripped under clothes are doing nothing to shield his body from it.

Everything is just blurred shadows. Disoriented, he tries to rub the dry pus out of his eyes, but instead ends up rubbing in more dirt and ash.

A hard blow to his stomach sends him flying.

He cries out from the suddenness of it and immediately curses himself for the weakness.

There is a mayhem of cheers and clapping, a jarring cacophony of sounds everywhere around him. He tries to get up, but the traitorous muscles cramp from being forced in the same position for so long, and his dehydrated, starved, deprived of oxygen body refuses to serve him. _Mjölnir_. He calls for her again, his hand extended above him, but she doesn’t come.  

“Eldjötnar! Sons of Muspelheim!”

He instinctively turns his head in the direction of the harsh booming voice, coming from somewhere above him, trying to make out the hazy shapes through his damaged eyes.

“This puny Áss thinks he can fight us.” The voice multiplies through the echo, as it is carried across the land, bouncing from one slope to the other.  

The crowd laughs and whistles, and the voice waits for it to calm down before continuing.

“Should we test it?”

This is met by even louder cheers and whistling.

There is another blow. This time it lands square between his legs. A blast of pain explodes in his groin, piercing up through his gut. It’s unlike any other pain. The battered balls want to crawl up and hide in his belly. He curls on himself on the ground, gasping, unable to suck air into his lungs.

He tries to get up, falls, tries to get up again.

“Get up!”  This time it’s a different, screeching voice. More like a shrill. It’s right next to him. Something sharp pokes him in the thigh.

There are several of them, hideous distorted shadows, circling him like the wild beasts, hissing and shrieking.

He musters all his remaining strength and lunges for the dark winged shape on his left with a hoarse cry.

The creature steps aside at the last moment and another one stabs him in the side, the spear end digging deep between his ribs. He falls again.

The crowd cheers.

“Get up and fight!”

He pushes to his knees, pressing one hand to the wet wound in his midsection.  “Cowards!” His voice is hoarse; the sounds scrape his dry throat. “You have no honour! Give me a weapon, a sword, something!”

The blows stop and the crowd grows quiet. All he can hear now is the hissing and the sound of the wings flapping around him.

“Very well,” sneers the booming voice above. “Skulveig, give this Áss our finest sword.”

The footsteps approach him. He hears a distinct long _shiiiiing_ of a sword drawn from a sheath and then a _clunk_ of the metal hitting the rock.

He crawls forward, blindly feeling the ground.  The creature chuckles; then there is a rasping sound of the weapon being pushed across the rocky floor.

Finally he has it. He grabs the hilt and—

First, there is a loud sizzle and then he feels it. Pure white-hot pain.

The skin is melting on the palm of his hand, where he is gripping the incandescent hilt of the Eldjotnar sword. His fingers unclench, and the sword drops to the ground.

The crowd is reeling with laughter.

They are mocking him. The blood is pounding in his ears. He grinds his teeth and picks it up again, ignoring the torturous pain, using the sword as leverage to pull himself to his feet.

He tries swinging it, but can hardly lift it off the ground. He adds the second hand, trying to keep it over the first, away from the searing metal. Finally, the weapon is in the air. He staggers, trying to keep the balance under its weight, hands shaking with the exertion. The dim hissing shadows are dancing around him. He shakes his head trying to focus on the figures.

One of the creatures laughs. He growls and launches forward, charging at the grating sound, sword in front of him. He takes a swing leaning into it. And misses. The creature backhands him with the astounding strength, sending his body flying backwards again. The blade is knocked out of his hands.

He lands hard on his back. Something snaps in his body. He can’t tell where the pain is coming from anymore.

He tries again.

 

The fight doesn’t last very long. 

Soon there is nothing left. Nothing more to give. Exhausted, he sinks to his knees and tilts his head upwards.

“Heimdall!” He can hardly hear his own voice, as it drowns in the roar of the crowd and the rumbling of the restless ground beneath him. “Father!”

There is no answer as the dark skies remain deaf to his pleas and only the ash falls on his upturned face like the giant grey snowflakes.

 

 

“I think we’ve had enough of this,” says the booming voice. “Arrogant, foolish boy! You thought you could come here and fight me without even as much as the All-Father’s army!” He huffs and then adds, “Skulveig, proceed!”

The crowd goes wild.

Clawed paw presses on his shoulders, pushing him face down into the ground. He doesn’t fight it. The ash tastes bitter in his mouth, and he tries to spit it out, but it sticks to his dry tongue.

One of the creatures roughly hoists his hips up, keeping him in the chest and knees position. It runs a long sharp claw down his back, slashing the tunic and cutting all the way through the skin and muscle.  He doesn’t make a sound. The claw moves down his crack and pauses outside his hole for a moment before abruptly pushing inside. He does cry out then.

The creature rips the remaining scraps of the clothing from his body. The paws retreat, only to return a moment later, grabbing his arse and spreading his cheeks.

 _No, no, no! This cannot be!_ For the first time in his life, he feels a sheer unadulterated terror.

A hot blunt tip presses against his hole. He jolts forward, trying to escape it, but the creatures hold him firmly in place.

“Now be a good boy and take it,” says the creature with a note of mockery. “For Asgard!”

The audience erupts with vicious laughter.

The monster’s cock pushes into him. Impaling, splitting him into two, carving its way through his gut, right up to his stomach and then sliding all the way back.

He screams.

It feels like his insides are coming out.

And then — fire. He is burning on the inside. He wants someone to carve his heart out, to make the torment stop.

After that nothing exists, but the crimson waves of the gut-wrenching torture.

 

***

 

The scream pierces the thick murky air, and Loki stands up abruptly. He can’t quite pinpoint it, but there is something terribly unsettling about that scream.

“Is something the matter?” asks one of the Rock Trolls, alarmed at the sudden change of mood. His yellow eyes narrow dangerously as he looks at Loki’s gloved hands fumbling with the large blood-red crystal.

He doesn’t grace the troll with a reply. Instead, he looks around trying to locate the source of the sound.

The Rock Trolls — the merchants of death, as they are called — are sat on the rocky ground, surrounded by the old maps and the stacks of rusty metal chests.

A little further on an old dwarf is examining two young Vanir slaves. The girls cling to each other for comfort and cough when he pulls down their face masks.

The Pits — an aptly named black market nested in the system of interconnected caves and surrounded by the chain of glowing pits filled with molten lava. Scum from all the Nine Realms come here to conduct their shady business. Hidden from the watcher’s eye this is where slaves are sold and bought, coups are plotted, mercenaries are hired to start wars, forbidden ingredients are traded for the darkest of magic.

Beyond that only the barren land. Twisted and crumpled landscape illuminated by the red fire fountains rising skywards and the glow of the incandescent lava streams. Above it, a dark curtain of ash and poisonous gas that brings the eternal twilight to the planes of Muspelheim.

 

There is another scream followed by a bout of cheers. 

“You must excuse me now.” Loki turns on his heels, pulls up the hood of his black cloak and starts walking hastily in the direction of the noise.

“Hey, I thought we had a deal!” protests the troll.  “What about that— “

“Later.”

 

***

 

The brisk walk up the hill leaves Loki breathless, with the strong gravity and the high content of sulphur making it hard to breathe even through the face mask that he is wearing. The heat is suffocating. It oozes through the fissures in the ground making him sweat underneath his long woven cloak and leather armour.

The rock trolls and the dwarves, who spend most of their life in the underground forges are the only non-native creatures able to comfortably withstand the heat, but even they can only breathe the sulphur-saturated air for a short while.

It didn’t take long to locate the source of the noise. A huge amphitheatre is formed in the crater of a sleeping volcano. Long rows of steps carved into the steep inner slopes are filled to the brim with the spectators: demons, marauders, trolls and numerous of other more discreet characters, hidden behind their breathing masks. The noise is almost deafening. Multitude of dialects and sounds: cheering, hissing, croaking, grunting, wings flopping. A demon next to him turns and says something with a sharp-toothed grimace that parodies the smile. Loki stands amidst the jubilant crowd, just another faceless creature lurking on the outer branches of the Tree.

The steps lead down to the natural flat area at the bottom of the crater, serving as the arena. To the right side of the arena, next to a small lava pool, there is a tall dais with a large throne carved out of the polished black basalt. Upon it sits a Fire Giant. The enormous towering figure that dwarfs all other demons by comparison. His huge muscular body covered in shiny red skin. Bright orange licks of fire dance behind the narrow slits of his eyes. Grey smoke comes out of his flaring nostrils with each exhale. Surtur – one of the most feared Lords of the Nine Realms.  In these hostile fiery lands he reigns supreme.

The sight makes Loki shudder. But he has seen worse. _Much worse._

The audience suddenly explodes with cheers and applauses.

Loki elbows through the excited crowd paying little attention to the disgruntled hisses to find a better spot from which he can see most of the arena.

In the centre, a large Fire Demon is brutally raping a bloody naked slave. He is flanked by two smaller demons.  They cut strangely grotesque figures with their long bare tales, arms ending in crooked claws and enormous wings covered in wrinkly grey skin. Truly unsightly creatures!

Public torture and slaughter of slaves is not something Loki has a particular interest in. Mindless violence distinctly lacking any kind of finesse or purpose. But there is something peculiar about this slave, something that makes him watch the proceedings. Something that makes him feel… _uncomfortable._

The slave is thrashing in the demon’s iron grip, screaming, scraping at the ground with his bare hands. The next moment the demon fists his paw in the slave’s long grey hair and roughly jerks his head up.

 

Loki’s stomach sinks as he stares at the captive in disbelief.

 

Under the layers of ash that made his hair and skin go grey, there is the golden prince of Asgard. This pitiful naked figure jerking under the fire demon is Thor.

 

It has been years since Loki last saw him, years since his _not-brother_ left his body to rot on Svartalfheim. There was no state funeral, no lanterns, no mourning. He has spent years wandering between the branches of Yggdrasil, lurking in the shadows, perfecting his seidr. _Putting the pieces of his broken mind back together. Contemplating his revenge._

The demon pulls out almost all the way and slams back inside again. He gives Thor several more long brutal thrusts, then closes his eyes and hisses with a blissful expression.

Thor’s body convulses and lets out a horrible animal cry that is almost swallowed by the roar of the spectators.

The demon gets up from his knees and turns to the appreciative audience. He swings his hips demonstrating the still hard fist-thick gnarled cock with a hideous bifurcated head covered in glistening red-brown skin. There is a streak of fire coming out of the tip.

Loki balls his fists, the fingernails cutting into the palms of his hands clawing right through the thin leather of the gloves.

Thor collapses slackly on the ground, his abused body shaking violently. The second demon flips him over to his back and spreads his legs, exposing Thor’s privates for everyone to see, as he readies to take his turn.

Loki curses under his breath and charges down through the whistling, grunting, hissing mass, pushing the overexcited demons and marauders out of his way. “By Nine, Thor! How did you get yourself into this?”

 

 

***

 

 

There has been no reaction from Thor for some time now, and the crowd is getting bored.

King Surtur gets up with a sigh, descending leisurely from the throne platform, and walks to where the second demon, who was just fucking Thor is standing over his still body. Surtur kicks Thor hard in the stomach. The ribs crack loudly, but there is still no reaction. A look of acute disappointment flashes over the king’s face.

The crowd whistles and boos.  Rocks are flying into the arena. A few of the well-aimed ones hit Thor’s head and bounce off, landing at the king’s feet.

“Well, that was no fun, no fun at all. Get the next one and this time, MAKE IT LAST!” Surtur kicks Thor’s charred, lifeless body once again and spits some fire onto the ground in irritation, before turning around to walk back to his royal seat. “Bloody demons! Can’t delegate anything to these fools!”

Two Fire Demons pick up Thor’s body and drag it towards the lava pool.

 

***

 

They land hard on the side of the slope opposite the arena. It is not far enough, but Loki’s magic is stretched to its limit maintaining the solid illusion and keeping the invisibility spell on the both of them. He can’t risk either of those spells failing.

Loki looks over to the arena. The second demon is still enthusiastically thrusting into the unmoving body.  Praise Norns for that! If he had to conjure a solid moving illusion, he wouldn’t be able to teleport them out of the arena at all.

Thor is slumped on the ground at his feet, shaking. Loki takes stake of his injuries. Cuts, burns and blisters, a gash in his side, some bones are broken — nothing an Aesir body couldn’t heal on its own given some rest and nutrition. His blood-shot, pus-filled eyes are a bigger concern, but it’s the internal injuries to his entrails that are the most worrisome. Without immediate attention these could be lethal. The flesh is damaged beyond repair, without the healing magic Thor will not make it. Unless treated shortly after the injury, it becomes irreparable. _Like Odin’s eye_ , _the one that he should have treated, rather than busying himself with hunting for Jotnar infants._

He needs to get Thor off-world _now_ , or it’s going to be too late.

Loki pulls Thor’s arm over his shoulders, hooking his other arm around Thor’s back. It rubs against the deep gash left by the demon’s claw, but it is the least of his concerns at the moment. “Get up!” He tries to pull Thor’s body into standing. “You thought yourself invincible! You, arrogant fool! Get up now.”

Thor’s chaffed lips are moving as if he is trying to say something, but nothing comes out. “Brother?” he manages in the end, coughing up some dust mixed with blood as he rasps the word.

Loki stares as the blood splatters on the grey rock. This is not going to end well.

 

“Yes. Yes, it is me.”  He curbs the urge to say something sarcastic about how disappointing it must be that Father dearest didn’t make it. He needs Thor to cooperate.

“Brother, I thought you—“ a coughing fit cuts Thor short.

“You will forgive me if we leave the sentiments for another time. Get up now!”

 

 

***

 

The passage that leads off the realm is about half a mile away, but to get there they must walk up the steep slope, unstable rock crumbling under their feet, and fountains of molten lava and gas shooting from the cracks between the slabs. Loki’s own body feels heavy as uru, his lungs starting to burn from the lack of oxygen. It is remarkable that Thor manages to walk at all, the state he is in. Soon the adrenaline will run out, and the pain will return ten-fold. He is not sure Thor will be able to make it to the top.

The progress is painfully slow. By now Thor’s feet are also bleeding as the sharp, hot rocks cut through the bindings Loki has fashioned from the strips of his cloak.

Around half way up, Thor trips over the boulder and falls. He jerks and coughs up more blood, but makes no attempt to rise.

Loki yanks him again. “On your feet!"

Thor rolls onto his side. He slowly draws his knees to his chest, one by one, and pushes himself up into sitting position with one hand.

With Loki’s help, he finally manages to get to his feet, staggering and almost losing his balance again. The blood is trickling from the cut on his back.

Another blood-chilling scream echoes from the arena.

Thor sinks to the ground again. He turns his head and stares with the unseeing pus-filled eyes in the direction of the sound. “No! No, I cannot leave him!”

The anguished scream turns into a muffled howl.

Loki looks down, where the two Fire Demons — the giant one that had Thor and a slightly smaller one — are assaulting a thin blond figure from both ends. There is a faint sizzling sound and puffs of smoke come out of the grotesquely outstretched mouth and arsehole every time they pull back. The man’s eyes roll in his head, his body convulsing.

Even from here and through the face mask Loki can sense the stench of burning flesh cutting through the sulphur-saturated air. A bout of nausea rises in his stomach and he quickly looks away.

“No! Fandrall! Fandraaaa…” Thor is wailing at his feet. Loki actually feels relieved that Thor can’t see what is being done to his friend, but the screams evidently gave him a good idea.

“There is no saving him now, Thor. You should have thought about it earlier! Before you stupidly decided to invade this realm.” He can’t imagine the Allfather sending Thor to Muspelheim without the army. No doubt he was committing some kind of treason again. Unless, of course, it was a spectacularly unsuccessful diplomatic effort, which, thinking about it, is not impossible.

“Nooo! Please!”

“Get up, you oaf! I cannot carry you. Not in this gravity. You _must_ walk! Get up. Up!” The oaf will truly die if they stay on Muspelheim much longer and he can’t start healing him here. Not while he has to maintain the spells.

“We cannot leave them! Sif, oh Norns! Sif! Brother, please, we cannot…”

Loki’s heart clenches as he briefly imagines Sif in Fandral’s place. For a moment he hesitates. If Sif is still alive, she could be next.  

He looks back at Thor barely alive at his feet. His charred and battered body shaking badly. There really is no choice to make. He banishes the image of Sif from his mind.

“Up! Up or I will give you right back to the Fire Demons, so they can finish what they’ve started.” Loki pushes his fingers deep into the wound in Thor’s side. Thor jerks and screams, but slowly starts rising. Loki hoists him up. “Move!”

 

In the end Thor almost makes it to the entrance of the cave before his legs completely give out and the pain takes over.  Loki drags him the remaining distance until finally they reach the entrance to the passage and then in a whirlpool of white flashes they are gone.

 

***

 

Pain. Fire.

Pain. Fire.

Pain. Pain. Pain. Fire inside him.

It is as if his guts are being toasted from the inside. It doesn’t stop. It doesn’t recede, burning brighter with every minute.

It hurts. It hurts so much.

“You had your insides fried up. Of course, it hurts! Come now! Up!”

Please. Please make it stop.

“What do you think I am trying to do, you oaf? Now walk!”

 

 

***

 

Loki tilts the gold pitcher and the thick greenish liquid pours slowly into the goblet.

Thor is wailing and screaming, writhing on the bed underneath him. One thing Loki never expected is that one day he would be bringing Thor to his lair. Although, truth to be told, he never expected to be saving Thor from the Fire Demons either.

He slaps Thor hard on the face and as Thor stops thrashing, shocked, helps lift his head and presses the goblet to his lips.

“Drink! Drink, it will help take the edge off the pain.”

Thor manages a small sip and tries to turn his head away, but Loki doesn’t let him and keeps pressing the goblet to his lips until all of the liquid is gone.

He lowers Thor’s head back on the bed and brings the small basin with the clean lukewarm water over his face, carefully washing Thor’s eyes with a soft cloth and applying the dressing. He goes on to clean the worst of the cuts.

In a few minutes the potion takes hold, and Thor’s screams become less agonising.

Loki turns Thor on his side, pushing his knees up to his chest so that he is curled in a foetal position.

He gently spreads Thor’s arse cheeks to survey the damage.

 

It is horrible.

 

The stench of burned flesh, blackened skin peeling off revealing the charred meat underneath. There is no blood, the wound is cauterised by the fire.

He crouches over Thor, kneeling on the bed and places a hand on Thor’s shoulder pinning him to the mattress and keeping him firmly in place. It is going to hurt — badly — there are no two ways about it. But it must be done.

Not giving Thor time to react, he pushes two fingers into Thor’s opening in one quick, smooth motion.

Thor screams.

And screams.

And screams.

Loki is using all his strength to keep him still. He should have chained Thor to the bed, but it is too late now.

“Shhhh, Thor. Keep still, you oaf, I am trying to help.”

He pushes in deeper and watches the light blue tint washing over his hand. He has to be careful to control the temperature. Soon he feels the fire inside Thor starting to cool, and that means that by now the numbness will be spreading.

When Thor stops thrashing, Loki lets the blue disappear and instead concentrates on sending the green sparks of the healing magic deep into Thor’s savaged body. Without the numbness of his ice, the pain of the flesh repairing itself from such devastation would be unbearable.

He won’t be able to repair all the damage in one go, it will take several days, but the cold of his other form will keep the area desensitised, and the potion will provide Thor’s body with hydration and some nutrients and help him sleep.

When Thor starts wailing and thrashing again, he stops the healing magic and lets his hand go blue again, keeping it firmly lodged in Thor’s behind. 

Soon Thor is shivering from the cold, and Loki drapes a thick fur throw over him, curling on the bed behind, still keeping his hand in.

 

Loki doesn’t leave Thor’s side for the next three days, alternating between cold and the healing magic and feeding Thor more potion every now and then. Thankfully, Thor sleeps through most of it.

 

***

 

The rack of lamb is divine. Loki sinks his teeth into the sweet succulent meat, savouring every juicy mouthful. The healing magic can be very demanding, it has drained him and left him ravenous. Conjuring himself a proper meal was the first thing he’s done, once he felt that Thor’s entrails have finally healed.

“Brother—” Thor is watching him bleary from the bed. His deep blue eyes have mostly cleared, and only a little swelling to the eyelids remains. This too will be gone in a day or two. His cuts and bruises are gone, and the bones have knitted back together. Now that the ash has been washed away, he is once again crowned with a halo of messy golden hair that ripple and gleam in the dim light.

Even like this, curled under the furs, he looks almost regal. Almost like the old Thor, the golden prince of Asgard, the first-born son — the _only_ son — with his unwavering superiority and his endless sense of entitlement.

Suddenly all the feelings come flooding back.

“I am not your brother.” He gives Thor a cold stare.

“Brother, surely you don't mean—“

“I am not your brother!”

“Loki, you came for me, you healed me. Enough with this madness…”

“Is it madness?” Loki arches his brow. There is a dangerous edge to his voice. “Oh, you did not _really_ think that I have forgotten all the years of humiliation, being constantly reminded of _my_ place, paraded in chains like a dog, thrown to rot in the dungeons!” _Locked away, alone and forgotten, when he was at his lowest._ _Discarded like a broken toy. Only to be taken out and undusted again when Thor had a use for him._ He doesn’t say it out loud. “Being denied a chance to say goodbye to mother while... while you paraded your mortal at the Queen’s funeral instead? Did you think that just because I didn’t let your stupidity get you spit roasted by a bunch of lowly demons, I have forgotten that? Son of Odin!” His voice cracks. He takes a deep breath, trying to fight back the tears that are dangerously prickling at his eyes.

“Brother, I—“

Loki walks over to the bed and slaps Thor hard on the face.

“You really are a fool! What did I just tell you? I. Am. Not. Your. Brother.”

Thor blinks at him with a confused expression.

 _No, this time, things will be different. This time, he will show Thor_ his _new place._

 

 

Something dark and freezingly cold stirs deep inside Loki’s belly.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Holy shit! You've made it this far! :D By the way, even though it's a badfic, concrit is always welcome. I might come back to it and try to improve it later on.
> 
> UPDATE: there were going to be 2 more chapters to this, but I couldn't really make them fit. So I think I'll leave it here. Let's just say, things will be different for Thor, but not quite as bad, as Loki & I originally intended, cause we just don't have the heart to be that mean to Thor.
> 
> UPDATE 2: if you are wondering about what happened to Sif, I posted a Sif bonus outtake in the comments below, towards the end. ))


End file.
